ZENith of Zaniness
by Nachtsider
Summary: Dedicated to all my friends in the Gunslinger Girl fandom. Contains a riot of fandom in-jokes, slews of OCs, gratuitous pop-culture references and truckloads of bizarre, over-the-top humor. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

Remember that comment Triela made to Mimi Machiavelli in Volume Four? "I don't know anything about current music or what's on TV?" Well, I've gone and written an entire story about it. This one's dedicated to all my friends in the Gunslinger Girl fandom; particularly those who receive specific mention – people, get ready for hilarity in spades.

Gunslinger Girl is the brainchild of **Yu Aida**. If you don't know who Liesel and Altheus are, please read A Day in the Life of a Gunslinger Girl (written by yours truly) before proceeding – it's a must. The 'centered closing punchline' technique is the trademark of my comrade **Colonel Marksman**, and is used with permission.

**ZENith of Zaniness**

**nell'inizio**

Ominous-looking storm clouds bathed the mountaintops as the jet-black helicopter hurtled between the snow-capped peaks, rotor blades bludgeoning the thin mountain air into submission as it hurdled saddles and swept through passes. On board, twelve familiar figures – four _fratello_ teams and four support personnel – sat facing inward on red nylon seats along the sides of the cabin, wedged amid a welter of equipment.

The upcoming mission was going to be rough, and our heroes' demeanor reflected it –their faces were lined and tense, and the fingers of more than a few twitched edgily on the triggers of their weapons. Desperate to ease the tension, Angelica cleared her cherub throat and launched into a fitting song just as the boiling black vapor above them began to crackle with electricity and Thor's hammer started pounding out its awesome rhythm.

"I see a little silhouetto of a man... Scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the fandango?"

Cue more thunderbolts and lightning...

"Very, very frightening!" chorused everyone, eager to clear the air.

"Galileo!" trilled Henrietta.

"Galileo!" chimed in Liesel.

"Galileo!" added Alphoso.

"Aristotle!" sang Amadeo.

"Aristotle?" All present fixed the former Marine with questioning – almost annoyed – glances.

"Get with the program, 'Deo," griped Georgio.

"Sorry, everyone," said Amadeo, smiling sadly. "Singing this song's become too traumatic for me ever since Freddie Mercury passed on."

Triela's jaw dropped and her blue eyes widened in genuine horror. "Freddie Mercury's _dead_?" she near-screamed, utterly aghast.

Another thunderclap, and the compartment fell completely silent. Henrietta and Angie were holding their respective supervisors in fright. It was plain to see that Alphonso had edged away from Triela, whose face was still frozen in an expression of shock. Georgio had gone one better, and seemed to have fled the scene – the sounds of a scuffle could be heard coming from the cockpit. Liesel was rubbing Triela's wrists and whispering whatever words of comfort she could come up with, her feline green eyes locked witheringly on Amadeo as he glanced out at the scene from beneath his seat.

"What did I do?" he whimpered helplessly.

Altheus turned to Hillshire, deeply concerned. The former Interpol detective was covering his face with his hands in utter mortification.

_"You really must take her out more, Victor."_


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter's a plug for my buddy, **Sintendo**. Those who've read his hilarious The Lighter Side (accessible from the 'Favorite Stories' list on my author's profile) will understand what I mean – if not, I insist that you check it out first. It's a marvelous read.

**la follia comincia**

"Our success at eradicating the terrorist outfit based in Provincia di Belluno has not only eliminated the immediate chemical-weapons threat to Veneto's waterworks, but also yielded more good news," said Lorenzo with some pride.

"Do go on, sir," said Bernado, Beatrice standing attentively by his side.

"The substances in question – binary weapons primarily composed of synthetic fluoride derivatives – have a very distinctive signature to their make. Combined with a few off-hand comments that were found in the documents Section One retrieved last week, we've been able to draw reasonable conclusions regarding their manufacturer. Jean?"

"Noboru Matsumura – chemical expert and microbiologist, wanted in conjunction with 1995's sarin gas attack on Kasumigaseki Subway Station," said Jean, booting up a projector slide featuring four detailed photographs of the man in question. "Previously thought to be working with insurgent forces in Zaire, our information-gathering apparatus has presently pinpointed him as operating out of a resort near Capri's Marina Grande."

"Apparatus?" exclaimed an outraged Priscilla. "What in the blue –"

"The data _Priscilla_ has obtained tells us that our mark stays there almost all the time, keeping company with no more than three bodyguards," interrupted Lorenzo loudly, in an obvious attempt to appease the female agent and keep things on track. Priscilla took the cue, muttering under her breath. "He's evidently grown complacent after evading capture for so long – a flaw that should make our mission against him a complete walkover."

"We've arranged for the resort to be empty and cordoned off at midnight, allowing for a team to be inserted without fuss," explained Jean, ignoring Priscilla's outburst. Turning to Bernado, he produced a portfolio containing complete floor plans for the relevant premises, along with specific details of the terrorist's living quarters. "That team will comprise you and Beatrice. Constantly bearing in mind that Japanese authorities have made clear their desire that Matsumura be detained unharmed, you are to –"

"Rico-Rico-bo-Bico-banana-fana-fo-Fico! Fee-mi-mo-Mico... Rico!"

Heads turned as Jean's _fratello_ pirouetted into the room. A pair of little black 'muffs' trailed from her ears to her belt, onto which was clipped a credit card-sized device of matching color that boasted a four-way directional pad, nine buttons, a slider and a glowing screen. Round and round her supervisor did the little girl twirl, chanting the above nonsense lyrics and performing an absurd, disquieting dance before skipping out as suddenly as she came in.

"Explain," said Lorenzo quietly after a most pregnant pause.

"She's run out of names, Chief," said Bernado, breaking into a guffaw that he swiftly turned into a cough upon seeing Jean's face – the senior handler looked as though he was going to have a heart attack any second. Outwardly, Beatrice appeared as stoic as ever – although a closer examination would have revealed her lips to be abnormally pursed and her shoulders to be trembling. Priscilla's previously morose look was now that of a sommelier whose tastebuds had just been graced by the finest Tuscan sangiovese.

"Remind me to never again permit 'Secret Santas' to give our operatives presents at Christmas, sir – especially _not _Creative ZEN portable media players with software for peer-to-peer file sharing," grated Jean when he at last caught his breath back, white-knuckled hands clutching the table for support.

Through a red haze, he recalled the neatly typed, anonymous greeting cards that had come with the devices, in which the nameless philanthropist had expressed 'pity over how cloistered you children are from today's world,' and stated how the electronic contraptions were 'the pinnacle of modern hardware'.

"Aren't quarantines and secrecy enforced for a reason, and aren't our cyborgs supposed to be the very personifications of state-of-the-art technology?" Jean growled. "When I get my hands on that miscreant," his eyes wandered dangerously towards a beautifully-finished model Mercedes-Benz in 1:32 scale that sat on Lorenzo's mantle, "his colon's going to wish it had never been born."

"That'll be all, everyone," said the chief upon following Jean's stare, hurriedly turning off the projector and ushering his subordinates out before locking the door and stowing his prized possession away from vengeful minds and brutal hands.

On a grassy hillock some distance away, Hillshire was laughing fit to burst as he watched Lorenzo's office through a pair of Leica binoculars, observing Bernado and Beatrice hurry off as if in pain, Priscilla walk away with a spring in her step and Jean trudge wearily down the hallway in the direction of Dr. Bianchi's clinic. Olga looked on dispassionately, shaking her head.

_"I know what you did, you naughty German sausage."_


	3. Chapter 3

Done as a tribute to **Ministry Agent** – the first ever Gunslinger Girl fanfic writer, and the originator of the groundbreaking idea that Claes secretly harbors a desire to let her hair down and go wild under that prim and proper exterior. Money Shots is a timeless classic – required reading for every Gunslinger Girl fan.

Plugs here for A Picture Is Worth Your Life, Terminator Claes: Gunslinger Girl and The German Shepard II: Hillshire Strikes Back by **Sheo Darren**, whom I consider the finest author in our community. His magnum opus, Life Goes On, is unquestionably the greatest Gunslinger Girl story ever written. Check out his work, people, and be spellbound.

The 'bad mistakes' bit Triela sings about is a nod to Innocence by **Colonel Marksman**. There's also another Lighter Side reference for **Sintendo**, because I just can't quit being inspired by that story.

**sniper**

"I've paid my dues, time after time," Triela sang softly, a pair of earphones extending from inside a pocket on her nightgown. "I've done my sentence, but committed no crime..." Emotion choked her voice as she recalled the traumatic events of this story's first chapter.

"And bad mistakes, I've made a few..." She reminisced briefly but bitterly on a certain night, ill spent in a dodgy motel. "I've had my share of sand kicked in my face, but I've come through!

Waltzing over to her mantelpiece, Triela picked up her bear brigade's newest recruit and held him close to her chest. He was brown and furry, sporting a white 'muscle shirt', a bracelet on his right arm, a sequin-studded belt and tight, pale blue jeans. A robust mustache of black cloth had been expertly sewn to his snout, and a miniature microphone, complete with long mounting pole, was strapped to his left paw.

"We are the champions, my friend," crooned an impassioned Triela to her cuddly companion, tears pooling in her eyes. "And we'll keep on fighting 'til the end! We are the champions... we are the champions! No time for losers, 'cause we are the champions of the world!

A pause now, as Triela kissed the bear's nose and carefully returned him to his place.

"I've taken my bows, and my curtain calls," continued Triela, drying her eyes. She lovingly caressed Hillshire's MasterCard, which he had begrudgingly lent her to set up a PayPal account. "You brought me fame and fortune, and everything that goes with it... I thank you all!

Turning towards her laptop screen, which displayed an almost-closing auction on eBay, she grimly noted the fierce bidding that had plagued the sale ever since it had been launched five days prior.

"But it's been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise... I consider it a challenge before the whole human race, and I ain't gonna lose!

Entering a suitably large figure, hitting the 'Confirm Bid' button barely three seconds before ending time and causing the words 'Congratulations – you just won the item' to appear before her triumphant gaze, Triela stood up and again burst into the chorus, exuberantly this time, whipping out her ZEN and using it as a pretend mike.

"We are the champions, my friend... And we'll keep on fighting 'til the end! We are the champions... we are the champions! No time for losers, 'cause we are the champions... of the world!"

The room door suddenly swung open with a cacophonous crash. Completely unfazed by the sudden racket, Triela coolly shut off the player and turned to look at the doorway. Silhouetted in the portal against the light of the moon with her mane of raven hair and white nightdress billowing in the wind ala Lady Madeline Usher was Freda Claes Johansson, and her expression was terrible to behold.

Triela's friend looked like she had been ordered to plunk her precious books on a pyre and grind her even more precious glasses to powder. The light gleaming off said eyewear could not obscure the intense glare of her icy blue orbs. Her lips were pursed in an immutably thin line of displeasure. One could almost expect her to start demanding where Sarah Connor was. But that was not to be.

"Are you username DangerousKurves88?" she demanded instead.

"The one and only," replied Triela, unfazed. _My, but you look lovely when you're mad..._

"You outbid me on that rare music lot, you sneak!" exclaimed Claes.

"Rico may rule the roost when it comes to sniping on the battlefield, but I'm Queen of that department in the blood-soaked arena of eBay," said Triela proudly. A look of amused incredulity then crossed her face. "Hold the phone – that was you back there?"

"Indeed it was!" said Claes hotly.

Triela's disbelieving smile broadened into an unadulterated, gleeful grin. "You listen to Goldfrapp, the Pussycat Dolls and the Scissor Sisters?"

The resulting look on Claes' violently blushing face was so priceless that Triela was sorely tempted to take a picture using her cell phone's digital camera.

"I'll get you for this, Triela," the bespectacled girl finally managed to splutter. "I'll get you if I have to travel to the four corners of the Earth."

And with that, she turned on her heel and exited the room, slamming the door behind her.

"Damn, Claes – way to be dramatic," Triela chuckled, restarting her ZEN. "At least I now know what to get you for your birthday, though." She popped the earphones back in and launched into song once more, leaning over to finalize the payment for her recent transaction.

_"She needs to break free... God knows she needs to break free..."_


	4. Chapter 4

Multiple plugs in this chapter, people. Guinevere (Gwen), who first appeared in Rebirth of a Queen, appears courtesy **LoC978**, Rachel of Solution's Resolution fame belongs to **ElfenMagix**, Baldasarre (Baldo) is **Sintendo**'s and debuted in Life, Liberty, and... while Clarissa (Clair) was created by fellow Angelica fan, **Neo-byzantium**.

A very big thank you goes out to these talented authors for permitting me to use their characters. Readers, please support them by giving each of the stories mentioned above a go. You won't be disappointed.

**motivo**

"Hut-hut-hut-hut-hut-hut-hut!"

Marco's voice, loud as a foghorn, pierced the early morning mist as he ran down a well-trodden path that twisted through the Agency grounds, dressed in full combat gear. Behind him followed a gaggle of cybernetically enhanced children, similarly clad and armed with an assortment of deadly weaponry.

"Why's Marco shouting about sheds all the time, Clair?" piped up one of the girls, a skinny six-year-old with freckles and red hair done up in a ponytail, toting a Chang Feng sub-machinegun.

"It's 'hut', Gwen," answered Clair, an older girl who could easily have passed for Gwen's big sister, adjusting the strap for her Saiga 12K. "It means..."

"Little wooden house?" Gwen suggested.

There was an awkward break.

"Well... that's what it sometimes means, yeah," began Clair, "but at other times..."

"It's a drill instructor thing, Gwen," put in slim, dark-haired Rachel. "They just have to say 'hut'."

"Okay..." pondered Gwen, eyebrows knotted.

The group filed through an indoor obstacle course, filled with moving barriers and pop-up targets. Marco rolled under one of the former, drew his Beretta and started taking shots at some of the latter. His young charges followed suit.

"I'm more interested in knowing why Marco's taken to mucking in with us every training session," huffed a tall, heavily-built lad with brown hair and Predator sunglasses as he cleared a large, tetrahedron-shaped obstacle. "Been seeing him a lot in the gym lately, too."

"He's trying to lose weight, Baldo," replied Angelica, readying her Steyr AUG.

"Oh? Found somebody he likes, has he?" grinned Baldo, letting rip at a target with his M16A1. "My experience tells me that men rarely try something like that, unless they're aiming to impress."

"Speak for yourself, Casanova," muttered Rachel as she performed a backflip over three hurdles like the skilled gymnast she was and reloaded her M1 Garand, memories of a clumsily-executed 'aim to impress' still fresh in her mind.

"It's due to my ZEN, really," said Angelica, loosing off a well-aimed burst of fire.

Clair did a double-take. "Your ZEN, Angie?"

"Um-hmm," continued Angelica. "We'd hooked it up to a couple of speakers in my room last week – Marco sat there listening to it, and the surround sound wouldn't work. That's when he felt he needed to get rid of a few pounds."

There was another awkward break.

"Okay..." pondered everybody, eyebrows knotted. Gwen slowly shook her head.

"_I'm really out of the loop."_


	5. Chapter 5

My OCs, Liesel and Altheus, make another appearance here, and so does **Sintendo**'s OC, Baldo. There's also a plug for A Picture Is Worth Your Life by **Sheo Darren**, with special thanks going out to my _amiga_, **Deathra** for the absolutely brilliant 'flying pink daisy' line.

**legge del murphy**

"Today... I hear the robin sing! Today... the thrush is on the wing! Who knows, today, what life will bring? Today...!"

Victor Hartman – better known as Hillshire – was strolling home through the bracing morning air, having been hard at work all through the previous evening and night. He was on his way from the Agency's administrative building to where he had parked his car, attaché case in hand, as he had done for the last four years.

In his mind were pleasurable anticipations of a warm fire, comfy slippers, a well-cooked breakfast and the morning paper. There was a rosy glow all over his thoughts. Couple that with the lovely weather (proof positive that the day was promising to be an exceptionally beautiful one), and bursting into song proved irresistible.

This good mood was to change, however, as soon as Hillshire turned a corner and his parking space came into view. Soon, he would be wondering if he had gone chasing a white rabbit and wound up tumbling down its burrow.

Sitting cross-legged on a sandy spot (which had definitely not been there to begin with and was made by design, judging from the sand's nearly pure white hue and the seashells strewn all over it) several paces away from Hillshire's car was Beatrice. She was wearing baggy khaki pants and a perfect example of the shirts so popular among tourists to Waikiki Beach during the Fifties and Sixties. Her hair was in dreadlocks and hung past her shoulders – hair extensions or otherwise, Hillshire couldn't tell, but her bangs were missing, too. Faint strains of reggae emanated from the earphones she wore, which trailed to a Creative ZEN that lay at her feet. A semicircle of bonsai palms stood around her like a queen's attentive handmaidens, and near Beatrice's arm was a bottle of liquorice water with a sliver of lime stuck near its mouth.

Hillshire stopped short, one stolid German eyebrow raised in utter astonishment at the curious sight. "What are you doing, Beatrice?" he asked after an initial moment of perplexed quiet.

"Wasting away in Margaritaville, searching for me lost shaker of salt," was the reply, delivered in Beatrice's usual deadpan style – with one exception. She was now speaking with an ersatz Jamaican accent.

"But... why?"

"Some people claim there's a man to blame, but I know it's me own damn fault." Beatrice slowly closed her eyes as if completely immersing herself in her music.

Hillshire took a look at the ZEN's screen, hoping it would give him some answers. As it turned out, the words he read only raised more questions.

"'Exodus'?" he said, squinting. "Is that the artist or the title?"

"Title. Bob Marley an' the Wailers be the group, mon."

"What's this accent about? And... why the hair?"

A hint of annoyance appeared on Beatrice's poker face. "Don't diss me dreads, mon. Now run along and let me finish me brew."

Up again with the incredulous eyebrow as Hillshire glanced from Beatrice to the bottle and back again. The container sported a faux – and obviously homemade – Dos Equis label. You can always tell Crayola work when you see it.

"And you're supposed to be...?" asked Hillshire, despite knowing full well that posing such a question would not bode well for his already bewildered mind.

"I be an irie Rasta, mon."

Silently boggling, Hillshire shook his head and reached for the driver's door handle of his car – only to stop short again to answer his cell phone, which had suddenly begun to ring.

"Lorenzo's got a job for us, Victor," said Altheus on the other end of the line. "Sorry, my friend – no going home just yet."

Hillshire's heart sank. The rosy vision of the warm fire, comfy slippers, well-cooked breakfast and morning paper seemed to have retreated to an incalculable distance. Beatrice languorously sipped her drink, looking on with little interest.

666

Giuseppe, Hillshire, Altheus and their respective cyborgs – with Rico present, too – stood around a drawing-room table, upon which lay an assortment of maps and charts. An undercover agent mingling with the shadowy figures of Rome's underworld had recently discovered the location of a major drug smuggling operation, and the _fratello_ teams were being tasked with the dual objectives of shutting down the joint and getting their man out alive.

"I wish Jean were here," said Altheus as he studied the plans. "This job's certainly no pushover, and we need all the skill and experience we can muster. Where is he, anyway?"

"I haven't seen hide nor hair of my brother since the day before," said a concerned Giuseppe, "although the Agency records indicate that he reported in sick. It's totally unlike Jean to go absent without telling me the reason – he isn't even answering my calls or replying to my text messages."

Nearby, Rico hummed an all-too-familiar tune, and Hillshire's stomach flip-flopped as the truth dawned on him.

"Jean will be alright; the man's hard as nails," he put in hurriedly, eager to change the subject. Clearing his throat, he niftily redirected everyone to the matter at hand. "I've performed operations like this during my time with Interpol, people, including a major raid against the Baader-Meinhoff Gang in Bavaria, and I'm confident that my experience can contribute significantly to making this mission a success." Altheus and Giuseppe nodded approvingly as Hillshire began to draw a series of lines on the blueprints depicting the drug smugglers' headquarters. "First and foremost, we..."

"Hold up, Mr. Hillshire, hold up," put in Henrietta abruptly. Excitement was writ large on her face. "Where did you say that raid happened again?"

"In Bavaria," said a puzzled Hillshire. "Why?"

Henrietta and Rico looked at each other, grinned, and nodded.

"_Er erinnert sich eine an Erfahrung im Bavaria – ja, im Bavaria, wo die Berge aus dem Boden ragen, wo die Bäume aus Holz sind, und wo die Schafe selten Brillen tragen! Ja, im Bavaria, und nicht im Venezuela_!" they recited in unison, before collapsing in a fit of wild giggling.

Hillshire and Giuseppe both looked as though they would turn into Biting Pears of Salamanca any moment, while Liesel smiled, Altheus chuckled and Triela burst out laughing. "British humor's a hell of a thing," observed the Swedish-Italian.

Déjà vu as the front door suddenly swung open with a cacophonous crash and all turned to look. Silhouetted in the portal against the sunlight was Freda Claes Johansson. Her attire of a farmer's faded jumpers, rubber boots and gloves and straw hat, complemented by the rake on her shoulder and the bucket in her hand, would have been cause for much unbridled amusement had she not been wearing an expression so terrible. Or so we shall see.

"What happened to the grass in my garden?"

Claes' voice was harsh and heated, so much that all present had, quite simply, never experienced something so fearsomely intimidating in their entire lives. Henrietta and Rico were holding each other in fright, Liesel looked a tad paler than normal and the handlers were trying their best not to show their apprehension. Only Triela stood unfazed.

"Well?" snapped Claes.

"Beatrice was smoking some very pungent roll-your-owns earlier," said Liesel hesitantly.

Silence reigned; with Claes staring as though Liesel had just told her she was a flying pink daisy, looking to join a troupe of daffodils passing through town come the next full moon. Behind the bespectacled girl, Baldo wandered about in Arctic camouflage, chewing the aforementioned plant, muttering assorted lines from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle and looking for the entire world like a large Friesian bull.

Then the stillness was shattered by the whirr-flash-click of Triela's camera phone. "Here's one for all time!" the blond girl chortled, before prancing past her stunned roommate and out the door.

This was more than enough to shake Claes out of her stupor.

"Up until now," she hissed, "I thought us cyborgs could coexist peacefully, with our watchword going vaguely as follows – 'I don't swim in your toilet; so don't urinate in my pool.' Thanks a billion for violating these terms, and turning my water park into a vivid re-enactment of Two Girls, One Cup!"

The events that happened next were a blur. With a roar that would turn a young person's hair gray, Claes raised her rake and intercepted Triela with a running leap that would have put the finest Olympic long-jumper to shame. Henrietta and Rico screamed with terror and dashed clean through the closed back door with Giuseppe calling in vain for them to come back. Liesel and Altheus rushed to pry apart the feuding roommates, who were grappling like pro wrestlers in a puddle of mud outside. Baldo stood there, grinning like an idiot, as he immortalized the fight on a camcorder...

_... and Hillshire realized, too late, that the whole business with the ZENs had gotten completely out of hand._


	6. Chapter 6

This installment was originally supposed to be about something else. However, a veritable army of readers e-mailed me wanting to know where Jean disappeared to in the previous episode, so yeah.

Based on a comment made by Alessandro in Volume Six of the _manga_ – in which he professes to Petrushka that he wears women's makeup on occasion – and Chapter Five of **Sintendo**'s Lighter Side. Also, expressly dedicated to **LoC978**... for a reason that'll instantly hit him once he thoroughly digests this chapter. Enjoy.

**incompreso**

"Rough time at the workplace, Mr. Croce?" the silver-haired proprietor questioned Jean as the former _carabinieri_ officer sat at the bar, leaning over the countertop and peering silently into the glass of whiskey that sat before him, which so happened to be his third. The expression Rico's handler wore was strained; his hair was tousled, his chin was covered with stubble and his sunglasses were firmly stuck to his face despite the fact that it was nine-fifteen p.m. and counting.

"You'll never know how rough, Paolo," was the muttered response. One could only tolerate so many listens to 'We Like to Party' by the Vengaboys, played at full blast on Creative ZEN portable media players hooked up to large speaker systems by raucously yelling cyborg children as they snake danced through the corridors of their dormitory. "Would you mind turning that radio off?" he requested semi-irritably, upon noting that the mournful strains of 'Bad Days' by the Flaming Lips were wafting from its direction. Initially hesitant, Paolo complied upon being handed a five-Euro tip.

Downing the beverage in one gulp, Jean wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and hiccupped slightly before roughly depositing the glass back where it formerly stood. Several silent seconds passed before a loud, long exhalation from his right prompted him to look sharply in that direction. To Jean's astonishment, sitting not too far off was Alessandro, looking extremely despondent – and thoroughly sloshed – as he held a glass of vodka up to his red-rimmed eyes and swirled the liquid around.

"I don't remember Petra taking part in any of the unseemly hullabaloos breaking out all over the Agency as of late," said Jean gruffly. "What's your excuse?"

"Being sorely misunderstood," replied Alessandro, fighting back a sob.

Jean squinted in puzzlement behind his shades. "About?"

"I'm really a woman trapped in a man's body," sniffled Alessandro.

There was another silence, largely maintained by Jean to gather his wits. "Well, that certainly explains why you're so handy with cosmetics and why you're somewhat... fond of them," the senior handler finally said, his speech slow and cautious. "What it _doesn't_ explain, however, is all that talk about you and Petra that's been going around. If I recall correctly –"

"See what I mean when I say I'm misunderstood?" Alessandro howled suddenly, bursting into a geyser of hot tears and hurling his glass against the far wall, where it shattered into a million pieces with a loud crash. Numerous other patrons recoiled in fright, and more than a few started edging away from Alessandro, optically measuring the distance between themselves and the nearest exit. "Nobody – not even the supposedly analytical Jean Croce – can tell the bloody difference, _because I also happen to be a lesbian_!"

And with that, a maniacally-shrieking Alessandro flung himself through the others sitting at the bar and directly at Jean, who deftly twisted aside at the very last moment. The younger man careened over the counter and headlong into a rack of bottled wines, his ear-splitting imapact sending vintage port flying everywhere in great red splashes. Paolo the proprietor frantically hollered for assistance, and in the blink of an eye, the rabidly snarling and violently thrashing Alessandro found himself being unceremoniously hauled off the premises by three brawny bottle-washers.

"Jesus Christ... what was that all about?" said a shaken Paolo as he set about wiping the stained countertop clean, obviously not privy to the conversation that sparked off the fracas. The pub was now all but empty, a cloud of dust slowly settling and tables and chairs strewn all over the place by customers hurriedly scrambling over each other to escape. The only other patron left besides Jean was a luckless drinker lying out cold on the floor with a size ten shoeprint on his face.

"Just some weirdo letting his hormones get the better of him," said Jean, adjusting his sunglasses, collar and skewed tie. He wearily passed a hand over his face. "Two shots of tequila, please, Paolo.

"_It's going to be a long night."_


	7. Chapter 7

Frederick Koch appears courtesy of **Panzer IV**, and first appears in his Reason to Live series of fanfics. Liora originates from stories written by **Colonel Marksman**. Special thanks also go out to **Darth Tabby **and **Sheo Darren **for their assistance with fleshing out the plot!

**amore pazzo**

"This thing... called love... I just... can't handle it! This thing... called love... I must... get round to it! I ain't ready! Crazy little thing called love…"

There were many, many hallways and many, many buildings on the Social Welfare Agency grounds to get lost in. Triela was pacing a corridor in one such building, a building that had no name, in search of her roommate, whom she had not seen all day, when she felt a soft nuzzling at her bare ankle. There stood the diminutive white form of Liora, purring softly and nudging Triela in the direction of a side-passage.

Eyebrows raised, Triela walked briskly after Liora, whose bell jingled as she scampered along. Up flights of stairs, through innumerable entrances and down myriad corridors the pair went, their trek seemingly without end. In good time, however, they reached a secluded suite of rooms, from which a familiar, happy tune was issuing. Liora raised a paw to one of them, looked at Triela and mewled.

Triela strolled over, opened one of the room's two double doors and saw none other than Claes herself, exercising her vocal chords and merrily hammering away at her grand piano. She slowly stopped upon registering Triela's presence, but did not turn to face her visitor.

"Well, well," said Claes, stooping down to pick up Liora, who had slunk between Triela's legs and into the room. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"Claes, I need to speak with you," said Triela, her look being one of extreme sobriety.

"I know why you've come, Triela," responded Claes without making eye contact, petting Liora throughout. "I expect your apology to be nothing short of spectacular."

Sure enough, it was. One extensive, extravagant speech later, even the normally imperturbable Claes was left suitably impressed... or so it seemed.

"Mistakes were made, Claes – I truly regret all that I've done and all the distress it's caused you," concluded Triela. "Perhaps, one day, you might find it in your heart to forgive me."

"Perhaps," said Claes, reaching out to take her friend's hand in hers.

The two girls smiled, and time passed. A cool breeze wafted in through an open window, past which falling leaves fluttered. Fluffy white clouds obscured the sunlight shining in through said portal. Liora lay huddled in Claes' lap like a little snowball.

"So, now that we're friends once more..." Triela finally broke the silence, "Could you help me filch that video of us mud-wrestling off Baldo?"

"About time you cut to the meat and potatoes," Claes sarcastically chided. "Why on God's green earth, though, would the Agency's top gun require the assistance of a lowly lab rat such as myself?"

"I've tried everything ranging from civilized diplomacy to going Lady Snowblood on his ass," grumbled Triela. "The party got vanned pretty quick, though – I'm now under strict orders to stay over nine thousand feet away from his ward in the hospital. It's pretty clear there's nothing that big dumb ox isn't willing to withstand where the tape is concerned."

"What about Frederick?" Claes suggested. "You two are pretty tight, so to speak – haven't you been able to rope him in?"

"We've _both_ been dressed down. He was the one who restrained Baldo throughout the waterboarding." Triela frowned. "I don't know why, but I haven't been able to shake the odd feeling that Frederick seemed kind of reluctant where it came to this business."

"Maybe he secretly wants a piece of the cake, too," sniped Claes. "Just kidding," she added, as she felt Triela's glare on her. "Come now, young lady – it doesn't pay to get mad at the person whose help you're trying to obtain."

"Claes, _please_. I'm _begging_ you, here." The rictus of despair and desperation Triela's face was caught in is far better imagined than described.

_Oh, what I wouldn't give to hear her sing 'Stand By Me' now_. "Don't get me wrong, Triela – I'd have been more than willing to help if you'd come sooner," said Claes, palms raised. "Unfortunately, it's a bit too late for me to do anything of the sort now."

This, just as Triela thought her heart could not sink any lower. "Too late? How so?"

"Because I'm way ahead of you already." Claes produced a thumb drive from her pocket and dropped it into Triela's hands, causing the blond girl to start and give a little scream of joy. "Here's the original, unmodified copy – Baldo handed it over immediately after I proposed to swap it for something even better."

"Jesus Christ, I'm so happy I could kiss you," laughed Triela, doing a little victory pirouette as Claes fixed her with a semi-serious look of warning that seemed to say: "In the privacy of this room, you can call me Claes," and "Not in front of the kitty, Triela." "I don't know how to repay you, Claes – you're the truest friend I ever had."

"Just be sure to tone down that sass and keep your sniper rifle to yourself," chuckled Claes. "See you later."

Halfway out the door, Triela stopped in her tracks and turned around, her smile fading. "Hold the phone – original, unmodified copy? You mean there exist other, _altered_ copies of this thing?"

"Just one," smirked Claes as she caringly set Liora down and resumed playing the piano. Her glasses gleamed disturbingly as they caught the sunlight, no longer blocked by the clouds. "One that I used as my bargaining chip with Baldo and titled Dual Dutch Delight, in which I, via the miracle of modern video-editing technology, deftly replaced my digital self with an astoundingly lifelike computer-animated rendering of you.

"_You might want to watch it on YouTube to find out just how realistic she is..."_


	8. Chapter 8

This chapter marks another appearance by my OC, Liesel. I won't explain the references I've used here. If you're a serious Gunslinger Girl fandom buff, you'll recognize them instantly.

**un tutto per un occhio**

The last rays of the setting sun were bathing the western sky with their fading glow as Liesel, viola case in hand, cordially parted company with Altheus, strolled away from the Agency car park and down the quiet, tree-lined path leading to her apartment, as she had done for the past four years. The soul-destroying weeks of surreptitious surveillance leading up to the afternoon's mission had paid off handsomely, and she had pulled the job off in flawless style, outdoing even her checkered record to date. She was feeling pretty good.

"Liesel, my girl," she smiled to herself, "you deserve a bit of a treat."

Cue an abrupt change of mood as Liesel turned a bend and the low, low shape of her apartment came into view. She whipped her SAR-21 out of its viola case and broke into a run upon noticing that the door was off its hinges, loading and priming the weapon as she did so. Entry a moment later confirmed her fears – her home had been broken into and ransacked during her absence, with the perpetrators long gone.

Furniture lay upended or askew, with drawers forced open and cupboard doors left gaping. The walls were defaced with obscene graffiti, spray-painted in two distinct styles that nonetheless matched one another in their juvenile spitefulness. The larder and refrigerator had been looted, broken jars and bottles with their spilled contents strewn everywhere. The tray of butter rum muffins and jam-spread baguette slices she had prepared and set out to cool upon the dining table prior to leaving on her mission had disappeared, with but a sprinkling of crumbs to mark its passing.

While her porcelain features wore a frantic look of alarm, it was not the aforementioned vandalism that was affecting Liesel. Ignoring the damage, she rushed to the far corner of the living-room instead, opening a trapdoor so cleverly hidden that one could have sworn it had not existed prior to being uncovered. Squeezing her slender frame through the portal, the young operative was soon hurrying down a flight of steps that descended into an underground chamber.

The room was almost crypt-like, icy cold and dimly lit by a candelabra that cast an eerie, pale blue glow. All worry instantly faded from Liesel's face to be replaced by an almost dreamy look of relief as she noted that the ornate chest standing on a catafalque in the middle of the room was undisturbed.

From this casket did she gently lift a ridiculously tall, pastel pink, Lolita-esque boot, slowly removing and fondly caressing the flawlessly embalmed severed foot contained within, the toenails of which she had kept neatly manicured and immaculately painted. Moments passed before Liesel carefully returned it to its resting place, her previously-suppressed annoyance now bubbling to the surface as she quit the hidden room and ascended the stairs.

"How long must it go on?" sighed Liesel, shaking her head sadly as she booted up her ZEN. John Paul Young's 'Love is in the Air' started to play as she rolled up her sleeves and set about the tedious task of cleaning up. "This internal strife? This odium? This antagonism? This ridiculous business of burglarizing apartments, vandalizing property and pilfering pastries laced with untraceable, pancreatic enzyme-activated explosive chemicals?"

From somewhere off in the distance came the sound of a thunderous detonation.

"_Why can't we all just get along…?"_


	9. Chapter 9

Gwen from** LoC978**'s Rebirth of a Queen is here again. This time with her handler, Orazio, in tow.

**anacronistico**

"So, this thing's like a 0GB ZEN?" asked a puzzled Gwen as she examined the clunky, black, Sony label-bearing metal box strapped to her handler's waist. Earphones trailed towards it from his head.

"Not so much a 0GB ZEN as one with hot-swappable SD cards," smiled Orazio, polishing his spectacles.

"Cool! Could I get an upgrade someday?"

This question caught Orazio completely off-guard, nearly causing him to drop the glasses. "If you're good," he responded less than immediately, his voice uncertain.

"Thanks!"

Orazio watched as his cyborg booted up her media player and happily scampered off to the beat of an lively tune. Sighing heavily, the veteran ex-paratrooper hit the 'play' button on the Walkman, leaned on his cane and re-immersed himself in the moody strains of John Lee Hooker's 'Hobo Blues'.

_"Christ on a crutch... I'm not cut out for this job."_


End file.
